Jason Todd, Master of Feelings
by Lawless67
Summary: Damian experiences feelings. Needless to say, he doesn't like it. Jason lives to help. T for language.


"Really, Todd? Golf?"

Jason doesn't so much as twitch when the voice sounds behind him. He settles into his stance, exhales once, slow, and lets the club-a seven iron, his favorite-swing nice and easy. The shot is a little fat, and it doesn't have the distance he wanted, but it's straight as a damn arrow so he tallies it in the good column. He is out of practice, after all.

He doesn't acknowledge his (sort of) little brother until they both watch the ball-an obnoxious pink, easier to keep track of-bounce to a stop on the range.

Damian stands directly behind him-close enough to earn a bloody nose with the next swing if he isn't careful-dressed in perfectly washed jeans and a plain white tee. A black and gold ball cap sporting the Gotham Knights' logo shades the boy's face, but Jason can see the beginnings of a pout.

Jason himself is dressed similarly. The club they're currently patronizing isn't completely upper crust, but they still require slacks, polo, the whole shebang to actually play a round. They're a little more relaxed on dress code for the driving range, which is why Jason prefers to spend his afternoon up here.

"Didn't think you'd actually show up," Jason says casually, placing another ball on the tee and lining up his shot. "Back up a bit, will you? Don't want to have to replace any teeth before we're done here."

"I told you I was coming," the boy says, a little snappish, but he shifts, back and to the right.

"Actually, no, you didn't," Jason replies absently, during his down-swing. "You said, and I quote, 'your whereabouts are consistently inconvenient, Todd,' insulted my higher brain function, and hung up."

"My meaning was clear to any reasonably intelligent being," Damian says, then huffs, loud and dramatic and obviously vying for attention, and Jason has to smother a grin in his collar. It's easy to forget sometimes that the kid is only twelve.

"If you say so," Jason agrees amiably, re-teeing. He waits until the boy's face is the picture of impatience then turns, leaning on his club. "So what's up?"

"I have," the boy hesitates, "a situation. That is, a situation that is potentially problematic." The uncertainty in his voice is uncharacteristic and sweet and very, very young.

"Mhmm," Jason hums. "See, this is how advice works, kiddo. You give me the deets, I give you some wise, all-knowing, big brother solution based on my own past stupidity. You either take said advice, or completely ignore it, according to your whim. Either way, though, I've gotta know a bit more to help you out. Flying blind is a bad strategy in any situation."

He turns his club over, begins picking at the build-up of dirt and grass to give the kid a moment to think.

"There was," Damian begins, just as Jason's patience is beginning to wear a little thin, "a comment made. About Grayson and I, our…ambiguous familial relationship. It," he frowns, confusion in the crease of his brow, "was not meant hurtfully, I do not think, but Grayson…he has been distant. I don't understand."

"Who?" Jason asks succinctly.

"West," the boy answers. "He was at the manor last week. I wasn't meant to really hear. We were watching a movie in the den and West thought I was asleep, I think, but I wasn't and-"

"Hey, slow down. Take it easy a minute, huh?" Damian nods, and Jason can see his thin chest expand with the effort to be calm.

The kid distractedly runs his fingers along the edge of Jason's putter where it lies in his bag. Jason pulls it out, hands it to the boy because he understands that twelve-year-old emotions are not something easily looked straight in the eye. Damian accepts it, gently, slowly brushes the flat edge back and forth against the neatly cut grass-whoosh, whoosh.

"Now," Jason starts, "let me see if I've got this straight. Good old KF comes over, lugging along his fast mouth, right, and says something along the lines of how you're Dickie's baby. Am I right?"

Damian's eyes are glued to the ground. "He said...he said 'go put your kid to bed, Dick. God knows he won't.'"

Anger flares, and Jason's mouth goes flat and hard, but that's alright because the kid's not looking at him, not yet. "I see," he says softly.

"It's not-not a big deal." The putter's pendulum swing comes a little faster-whoosh, whoosh-over the ground. "I know that Father has not always been…actively present in my life. I accept that." Jason's heart breaks a little. "But it is a-a family affair. Is that the term? And it's…the way Grayson has been acting lately. After. I did not think he minded so much. Having-having the raising of me, I mean."

Ah. Dick Grayson, you great idiot.

Damian continues, "We haven't really spoken, since. Perhaps I am making more of the comment than it deserves, but…I cannot help but feel that-well, maybe Grayson is reconsidering his role, regretting, maybe. It's a bit much to ask, raising someone else's son."

"Damian-"

Damian shakes his head. "I'm a difficult person, I know. I've been hard on Richard, but I don't wish to be a burden, not any longer." There's a tiny waver in the boy's voice, the only sign of emotion he'll allow himself. "I wish to fix it. Could you-could you just show me how to fix-"

Jason abruptly jerks the kid into his arms, dislodging ball cap and golf clubs in the process.

"Aw, hell, kid," he complains, Damian stiff in his embrace. He has one arm banded around the boy's back, small shoulder blades poking at his forearm. The other is hooked about Damian's neck, cradling the boy's head close. The boy's hair is silky and short against his chin, and he scratches gently where it grows soft at the boy's nape, soothing.

"Listen, okay?" he says when he feels Damian begin to relax. "In our line of work, you learn pretty quickly to see through the lies or you end up dead." His lips quirk, self-deprecatingly. "Now, I know I'm not the brightest crayon in the box, but anyone with eyes can see that Dick Grayson loves you to pieces."

Damian twitches, just once.

"I don't know where this crap about being a burden is coming from, but I can tell you right now it's not true. Yeah, you're a pain in the ass sometimes. So what? We all were, at some point. Even Goldie. Did you actually bother to talk to him about this?"

Damian shakes his head, slowly, against Jason's shirt.

"Of course not. Well, if you had, he'd have told you himself to shut the hell up. I don't care about your parents, okay? Bruce is emotionally stunted and your mother is…something else. Whatever you feel like right now, you better know that you are wanted. You're not a burden, and you're not a box of kittens left out on the curb. You're family, yeah?" Jason finishes, pulling the kid back a little.

Damian's eyes are suspiciously red, but he nods.

"Okay, then. That's settled." Jason's brushes roughly at the boy's hair. "Now, as to Dick's behavior…" He shrugs. "Look, brat, I'm not the best at feelings and that shit, but I'd say that you're the closest thing Dick's got to a kid of his own, and that scares him a little."

Jason crouches, adjust the tee they'd trampled in all their feelings. Damian tugs at his cap and discretely swipes at his eyes.

"The guilt eats him up, you know-that he's taking B's place. He told me that once. It's not that he doesn't want to be…that…for you, it's that he thinks he shouldn't." He pats down the divot from a careless swing. "Do you think of him as your dad?"

Damian's eyes go wide, his mouth opens then shuts, brows furrowed.

Jason nods. "That's what I thought. I don't know what you guys are to each other, but whatever it is, it works. Come here," he beckons.

Damian scoots tentatively closer and Jason grabs his shoulders, pulls him in front so that the kid's back is to his chest. He closes Damian's hands around the grip of the club, links his fingers correctly. The club is a little too long for the kid, but Jason makes it work, chokes up on the grip.

"Alright now," he says, calm, "the key is, you don't try too hard."

Damian looks at him dryly.

"Yeah, I know that's shit, but it works, okay? Take it back."

Damian skeptically draws the club back. Jason adjusts his position.

"Now, nice and easy, let it fall, look just behind the ball. There you go," Jason praises as the ball skitters down the hill, low but straight. Damian frowns. "That's good, for a first. Let's try it again." He tees up another.

"See, if you try to guide it too much, you end up slicing it, goes off in a direction you don't want. Gotta keep the balance."

"That is," Damian tilts his head, "surprisingly astute, Todd."

Jason grins. "Reasonable intelligence, my ass," he quotes. "I'm a goddamned genius. Now do it again."

Damian does. "You are saying…I should not push Grayson too much."

Jason runs a hand over his hair. "I don't know. All I'm saying is, whatever you guys have, whatever works, just don't let some stupid comment mess it up. Don't let Dick think himself into a tizzy. Just kinda…be. It's worked so far."

"Yes," Damian says thoughtfully. "I suppose it has. He is…" Damian blushes, "well, Richard has done a lot for me."

"I'll try not to get my feelings hurt that you two are each other's favorites," Jason quips, rolling his eyes. "Now," he says, shouldering his bag and tugging Damian after him, "go home. Hug your Dickie and make up. Don't call me for at least a week."

"But how will you survive without me?" the boy jokes unexpectedly, deadpan.

Jason blinks for a solid second then pulls a half grin-half grimace, shoving at the kid's head as they walk down the hill.

"Ugh, I've created a monster."


End file.
